Spent
by derpette-Waffle
Summary: The Erebor Complex Building consists of tiny tenements for struggling immigrants. Working an immersive study, Prof. Bilbo Baggins moves in down the hall from a family he quickly grows too close to.
1. Chapter 1

FILI

Opening up the windows did little to nothing to cool down our tiny apartment. There was no escaping the suffocating heavy heat in the air; nothing to do but lie entirely still on the sofa, but not so long that you stick to the old vinyl like Velcro, because the ice cream truck might one day come down the street and stop in front of the complex instead of speeding past like children aren't melting in the sun –you had to be ready.

I cut my hair in June, when it started to dampen in the sweat on my back. The cheap hairdresser had trimmed it too short to look very good on my square head, chopping away while I'd fallen asleep in the chair, leaving nothing but tiny spikes of blond hairs. "I'll cut it myself next time," I'd promised Ma then, because I shouldn't have been spending my hard-earned cash on someone who would mess up the first real cut I'd gotten in years. It grew back unnaturally quickly, thank goodness, to a sort of shaggy mess that wouldn't do what I wanted in the humidity –I missed my braids; but it was better than nothing.

Kee was more enduring than I was: his hair survived the whole summer an inch below his shoulders, thick and heavy, and nothing to be done with it but tie half of it back. He'd just showered and was asleep on the couch beside me, still damp, calves trapping my thick thighs to the uncomfortable cushion and I'd push him right off if he wasn't about to be exhausted by work and wasn't worth disturbing. I picked up my notebook and tried to make notes for a sketch relating to this heat –but damn the humidity was sweating my brain out my ears. I dropped the pencil in a warm huff, rubbed at my eyes, and stared out the window. It wasn't sunny –god knows sunlight would boil the wet air!— but even the dark clouds bore no hope for a cooling rain.

"We might get a storm," I groaned, accidentally waking my brother next to me. I winced but smile a little to have my only company conscious. "Sorry, Kee."

"'S fine," he yawned, as if nothing had been disturbed. He winced as the heaviness lingered in his limbs. He didn't bother to sit up, but spared me the dead weight of his legs, whining all the while. "What time is it?"

I checked my phone; it was almost dead but held on to show me the hour. "Four-eighteen," I sighed, tucking it back into the pocket of my shorts. He groaned loudly and rolled over, off the sofa, face-palming the dingy rug. I laughed a little and nudged his head with my foot. "Wake up, you got work. Thranduil will have your ass if you're late –you can't keep blaming the bus schedule." He worked as a cleaner at the luxurious Woods apartment uptown, and hated going three out of five days a week. "It's just three hours and then you're done. You already showered, get up!"

Kee fumbled to his knees like a baby giraffe and got to a swaying standing position. He rubbed at his forehead and gratefully found there wasn't a bump to blemish his carefully toasted face. "Anything in the fridge?" He'd showered and slept before he could eat, and now there was no time.

"I don't know. Maybe some milk, a hot dog –leftover boiled chicken. I don't know; you don't have time for this. Pick something up from a cart." I stood and went to hurry him out the door in his t-shirt and shorts. The hallway outside our corner apartment was no cooler and I almost couldn't bear to let any possible coolness leak through the open door, but Kee was slipping a pair of too-big worn-through sneakers on. I stood shamelessly in my underwear, confident that no one was around to see me, blocking the way back in so he might not stall himself longer. I softened a little just before he left –"Be sure to get something to eat, on me." I stuffed a crumpled five into his wet palm. Even if he stopped for a minute or two on the way, he was a runner, and wouldn't miss his bus.

Kee nodded shortly and went for a little parting hug, but thought better of it. He patted my shoulder instead and ran to food and detested work.

I was about to head back in when I heard a loud crash at the other end of the hall. I groaned quietly to myself and shouted out to ask if everything was okay. I'd much rather go do nothing than stand here in the sluggish warmth –but altruism, as Ma said, had never sizzled out in my conscience, and I couldn't resist. I took a step, and then another, watching where I thought the noise had come from. The hallway made a sharp turn, but by the time I made it to the inner subsection of the fourth floor, I saw what had happened.

The man was small and doe-eyed, copper-haired and surrounded by bags that had fallen apart. I winced and watched him try to gather himself and his basic belongings scattered along the dusty carpet. He seemed a rather neurotic type, and when I called out to him again, he jumped to attention.

"Hello!" he greeted me with a pasted grin, and stuck out his hand like he did on a regular basis. I stared at it for a fraction of a second before cautiously clasping the outstretched palm and appeased him. He looked rather flustered still and stared at my face so intently I worried I might have drooled in my summer sedation. "I'm, uh—" He pardoned himself a moment to wipe at his nose with a handkerchief. "I'm sorry –allergies. My name's Bilbo Baggins, I'm just moving in today."

"Oh." And again, my urge to help betrayed me with a small smile quirking at the corner of my lips. "Do you need any help?"

He stared some more for an awkward moment, still looking either into my eyes or right at the bridge of my nose. For a second I wanted to shield myself, but I looked down to see I was still in my boxer shorts, and the redness in the man's face –Mr. Baggins's rosy face— seemed to transfer there to my own. I stuttered an apology but he laughed and assured me that, if I got some clothes on, he would very much appreciate the help.


	2. Chapter 2

I got into a pair of shorts and a tank so I was no longer so sparsely dressed and scaring off our new neighbor. It was odd to me, honestly –my mind was divided between this and whether or not I should wear my sneakers— that Mr. Baggins was moving into any apartment in the EC. He seemed born in the country, spoke the English well enough. Maybe he had fallen so down on his luck that money was tight enough to downgrade here, or maybe I was making assumptions, maybe he'd studied so hard that he'd adopted the accent as well. (I decided to slip my sneakers on, no socks, and jogged back down the hall.)

Bilbo had gotten his few bags and boxes into the studio apartment, a clump in the living space floor. I looked around –the place was already furnished with bare bones essentials: a few appliances in the kitchenette, a bed frame and small open closet. He had no furniture with him, not even a mattress. "What are you gonna sleep on?" I asked, drifting toward the things and weeding out what I could put away for him.

He gestured me to stand back with a smile and small wave of his hand, squatting to rummage through his few belongings. "A friend of mine is supposed to bring an old mattress later tonight. If he doesn't…" He shrugged one shoulder. "I'll lay my blanket out and camp on the floor." (as if the thought of sleeping on cheap linoleum floor didn't faze him a bit.)

"I…" The thought was odd to me –even though, in our own space, "We only have one bed; my Ma sleeps on a cot and my Uncle on the couch, but I don't remember anyone having to sleep on the floor."

Mr. Baggins seemed as taken aback by my exposition as I was, but shot me another good-natured smile. "It will only be for one night." He made no judgmental comment on our family's living situation; maybe he figured he was in the same boat, and had nothing degrading to say. It was refreshing coming from someone rather outside our little community.

"Were you born here—?" He trailed off, expecting my name, and I supplied it awkwardly. "Fili. Were you born here?"

"Yeah." It wasn't exactly an odd question. To someone born and raised in-country my slightly staccato accent might pique curiosity. But yes, I was born here in the city. "I've lived down the hall my whole life."

"You and your family?" He was hanging up some collared shirts (three of them) in the little closet. I nodded before I realized he couldn't see me, and said it out loud. "Were you all born here?"

"No— I'm first generation, my Ma and Uncle were born in Erebor. Most of us in the building were –that's what it's named for. Except the young ones. All the children were born since the crossing." I had the responsibility that came with being the first born in this new country, and needed to excel and set an example for the children. Kee was second, and felt the freedom of it regularly. I started to tell Bilbo as much, but cut it short after speaking about myself –if Mr. Baggins were to meet Kee (and he soon would), I wouldn't want him going in with some secondhand impression, no matter how well I knew my brother. Mr. Baggins seemed unusually interested, and his kindness settled something unnerving in my gut; and for his sake, I had to say it. "You're not from Erebor, are you?"

"I can't say I am. I'm just a country boy from the north –never moved around much between there and here." He stacks his pants on a shelf above the rack. "But thank you for asking."

I couldn't tiptoe around the matter. "Some of your new neighbors might be… wary of you, Mr. Baggins."

"Oh please, call me Bilbo. And why would that be?" His voice showed no concern when it bounced in and out of the storage space and back to me, and there was a little lilt of a smiling calmness.

I bit the inside of my cheek; I hated introducing our people to strangers who might get the wrong idea. "This is just a very," I thought hard, "closed community. Closed off, I mean –we're very sheltered –a lot of us don't speak English, or don't speak it well enough to carry any substantial conversation."

"I've got thick skin," he lied. "I'll manage." But when he finally turned to me, lo and behold, the predicted smile was indeed spread back into his round cheeks. "I'm a professor, Fili –I teach sociology and a foreign literature class at MEU. And I can tell already in the little conversation we've had that you're a very bright young man." I swallowed the praise and let it bloom in my chest. "Do you write?"

"A bit," I admitted, shuffling, wondering why the previous subject was apparently abandoned completely. "I have a YouTube channel with my friends –I write sketches for them to act out. Mostly some fluffy comedy bits that I hope are at least a little funny." I laughed at my own incompetence, but in reality, my stuff was mostly of little substance, even if they might get a chuckle out of a few dozen-thousand subscribers.

"I'm glad to hear your intelligence is being put to good creative work." His smiled brightened to a humming glow and he closed the closet door, the few bits of clothing he packed away inside apparently all he had with him. "What else do you like to do?" He spoke slowly, leisurely, almost made lazy and probably by the heat that in our exchange I'd almost forgotten –almost.

"I go to school; I work." Between those two I was lucky to have videos to spend the some time on, but not much else.

"What do you study at school; what do you do for work?" And when I stammered on an answer he pulled back, cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, I'm asking too many questions and not giving enough answers, aren't I?"

"No, no –you're fine. I work at the library, putting books back on the shelves and stuff. It's not great but the pay's fine." I flicked a peeling bit of paint on the wall and quickly retreated my fidgeting fingers when I realized. "And I go to the community college, earning my basic requirements –honestly, I don't know what I wanna do or even what field I wanna go into."

"You'll figure it out. You're young yet, you have years ahead of you to figure out what you want to do with your life!" And he said it with such confidence in an almost stranger that a part of me believed it without question. "I think I'm alright on getting everything unpacked –but if you're not busy, I would enjoy your company."

I smiled a little and nodded, and moved to half-sit against the crumbling window pane. My back pressed and stuck against the glass through my thin shirt, but we quickly got lost in giving away the careless details of our present lives that the uncomfortable ache evaporated there and everywhere.


	3. Chapter 3

We talked a long while, pleasant conversation smoothly interrupted every few topics by my offer to help him put something away (where he couldn't reach, or if something looked heavy) and was always met with a smiling dismissal and "I've got it, thank you." I tried to learn a lot about Mr. Baggins –Bilbo— while we were in that back-and-forth, but though he seemed willing to share information about his professional career, his accolades in his field, and even appeased my curiosity with a few vague details of his childhood, he still seemed very closed off. I didn't mind; aside from my brother I knew very little about even my closest companions: they were either closed off or I wasn't open to trusting myself with their personal business. Bilbo and I had just met, and though we chatted like old friends by nighttime, it didn't bother me that we were still scraping the surface.

It was at eighty-thirty-ish that he received a call from the friend that was supposed to bring the mattress but something had come up and couldn't. Bilbo thanked them and hung up with a little disappointed sigh. I winced; I had not liked the idea of the man having to sleep on the floor earlier, and it was only more upsetting now that we were growing friendly. I felt helpless; I had nothing to offer but an apology on the friend's behalf. He smiled at me again and asked I didn't let it worry me the way I was failing to hide. "I'll be perfectly comfortable."

It was a bittersweet coincidence, then, when at almost nine I received a call from a payphone –Ma saying she would not be home tonight; that her custodial work had kept her late after the first-year orientation and the place was a mess for her and two others to clean while they all slept satisfied. We conversed briefly in Khuzdul –to an ounce of embarrassment on my part in front of the English-bred professor— and it was made clear that she was staying overnight with a sweet young colleague of hers, and she'd be home late the next night, well after Kee and I had gone to sleep. She asked me to heat up leftovers from Sunday (this was Thursday) because Kee would come home hungry, and that I say goodnight to him and bid the same to me before hanging up in a regretful hurry.

I didn't like how she was kept so late, and that she would get an hour or so of sleep before going to the cafeteria to serve lunch to these same ungrateful university twits. But her absence opened a little vacancy in our apartment for Bilbo to stay just one night.

I called her back, and she seemed exasperated and exhausted so I kept it short. I asked if a friend could stay over –suddenly glad Bilbo wouldn't understand, and I could give each of them a different message— and she rushed off with a hasty "yes" before she was made to hang up again. I grinned and spun on my heel, back to the man waiting so patiently for my attention.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"My Ma. She's not coming home tonight, and I told her about the bed situation here; she said you can come to our place, sleep on her cot."

Bilbo looked comically scandalized by the suggestion, but I didn't laugh so he could take the offer seriously. "Really, Fili, I'm fine—" But I grabbed him, not hard, by the arm, and he let out a little squeak as I tugged him to the door. "I don't want to impose!"

"It's not imposition if it's being offered!" I did understand how he felt, and sympathized, but I'd rather help him get used to the idea of staying the night with his new neighbors than help him set a makeshift bed on the floor.

* * *

He sat stiffly on the cot outside what we plainly referred to as "The Bedroom" (though not in English). Kee and I shared the lumpy double bed with the bad springs that gave us sore backs by our early teens, and everything else in the room, what little there was, was shared among the four of us. The small closet was cramped with four thin wardrobes; the chest with the mirror, somehow intact many years and two rowdy boys later, awkwardly leaning between the lid and the wall, was for anybody's use in the morning routine; the chest itself, to get into which meant removing the mirror, held every odd thing that had accumulated over the years. Everything, even to us, felt antique. The only thing new thing to be found in the Bedroom was the doorknob, changed to give it a proper lock last year at Christmas –but it was for necessary privacy only, because some things required too much space for comfort that our three-foot wide bathroom didn't allow for.

But Bilbo, in his kindness and middle-aged wisdom, made me at least excited to introduce him around. I knew other Khazash would be suspicious of him first, like their comfortable circle was being ruptured by his presence in the building, but once they warmed up (and I was confident they would!) they would welcome him as an honorary member of our collective family.

Kee was the first of the two members of my immediate blood family that would arrive home that night. He stumbled, hungry and exhausted, in through the front door that swung back and hit the wall behind it. The loud thud brought me to my senses and my feet when I realized I'd forgotten to heat up Sunday's dinner.

"Food?" he groaned, childlishly grumpy until he had some in his stomach. He trod into the kitchen to find nothing made, but I met him there with half a dozen apologies interspersed with assurances that it would be ready soon. I got the pan out from under the sink and washed away the mouse pellets. Kee climbed (gracelessly in his fatigue) onto the short countertop between the basin of dishes and the stove on which I started reheating the chicken and mashed potatoes. He watched me, nose scrunched up, as I poured a cap of oil into the pan and dropped in a leg of boiled meat and cold lumpy potatoes. I stirred them in with each other with a spatula –I was no chef— and dumped them onto his plate when I thought I'd struck the right balance in time between his impatience and however long the food would take to heat up. The food was still cold on the insides, but he was much less bitter once he'd had a bite to eat.

"You didn't eat on the way, did you?" I asked plainly, thumbing a dent Uncle had put in the wall when I was seven. It was small at a glance, but deeper than a glance could catch. "I told you to pick up a hot dog or something on your way to the bus."

"I can't keep blaming the bus for being late. Thranduil will have my ass." There was no mocking punch to it; the same thing I'd said earlier lost its punch around a forkful of potatoes, but his honesty and tired face made me not want the five back.

Kee ate and immediately headed into the Bedroom. Bilbo had gone completely unnoticed, apparently faded into the background, and I couldn't let that go on. When Kee came back out I grabbed his arm and maneuvered him so he couldn't pass over our guest again. "Kee –this is Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins. He just moved down the hall." And my brother went to say something that I swore would be and observation that Bilbo was, very obviously, not Khazash. I cut off his crass greeting by flipping the introduction around. "Bilbo, this is my little brother, Kili."

Bilbo held out his hand to shake, and Kee very quickly crossed his arms over his chest. I was about to call him out for being so rude to someone who'd done him no harm. I tried to push his arms down, urge him to shake the outstretched hand –but the bright flush on his cheeks and the frantic look in his eyes brought my attention to the real problem. Kee had already gone and removed his binder, and now stood feeling too exposed through his shirt, waiting for the other shoe to drop, when Bilbo would notice and react however he would.


	4. Chapter 4

In that three-second interval, I was tense and ready to strike –Bilbo was nice and all but I owed him no defense, one wrong move and I'd throw him right out, let him sleep on that damn floor where I'd be lucky to never see him again.

But it didn't come to that. Bilbo pulled his hand back and offered a 'hello' and friendly smile in its place. "Very nice to meet you, Kili." He apparently wasn't any less awkward than when we first met (Kee wasn't caught standing in his underwear but it was no less embarrassing for him) stumbling in his tiptoeing around the situation that had Kee's shoulders tight and jaw set. "How was your day?"

"I went to school, went to work, came home. Now I'm going to bed." His voice was stiff and stilted and I could tell how badly he wanted to get out of there, but we had a guest over and should really try to make him feel welcome. I was trying but I couldn't handle it all myself. "Goodnight." It was said quickly and to me only, and he started to tug himself from the grip on his shoulders.

"Kee..." It was a half-hearted plea; maybe it would be best if he did go to bed. He pulled away and I managed to pat his back before he was out of reach. The door was yanked open and slammed shut, and Bilbo and I were left alone again.

"Did I do something wrong?" Bilbo asked quietly, shifting from foot to foot. I shook my head and assured him that Kee was still just tired from a long day, and even though Bilbo's greeting had been just fine, he wasn't used to strangers in our apartment. The man nodded, loose copper curls flopping a bit. "I'll be more careful next time, and come at a better hour." He smiled, and I laughed a little.

We talked comfortably on the lumpy sofa a while longer; I watched the clock, anxiously anticipating Uncle coming home to find the professor staying the night on Ma's cot. I couldn't guess he'd been thrilled with the news (Uncle was hardly thrilled about anything ever) but he'd probably grunt and tell me to move off the sofa with my new friend so that he could get some sleep; he had work early again the next morning, and neither Friday nor the weekend would be very kind to him.

It was almost eleven when I started to get tired, but I forced myself to stay awake so Bilbo wouldn't have to inevitably face Thorin on his own. But the man next to me seemed to notice my eyelids falling shut against my will, and he chuckled again. "Get some sleep," he insisted, patting my shoulder. My face burned and I shook my head. "Why not?"

"My uncle will be home soon, and he doesn't like unexpected visitors. Like… think Kee was bad? Uncle Thorin is much worse." I shook my head a little fondly and rubbed my shoulder where Bilbo's hand had been. It felt especially warm and the color in my cheeks didn't fade.

"I'm sure I can handle him. I'm not just book-smart, you know; I can deal with people as well as anyone can."

"You don't know Thorin."

"I'd like to, though, and if you're getting sleepy already than I shouldn't keep you up longer. Go on, now –off to bed."

I sighed and smiled at him, standing up and heading off. I brushed my teeth in the moldy sink and used the toilet that needed scrubbing when we could get a hold of the proper bleach. I thought about taking a quick (cold, very cold) shower but shuddered at the thought; I was sweaty and stuck to the inside of my clothes and dollar-store deodorant could only do so much in an uncommonly sweltering early September. Kee had showered before work (we were out of soap) and I didn't wanna be the one to stink up the sheets when we couldn't get them to a laundromat until Sunday –but without soap or anything was there I point in showering? Probably not; I'd still sweat like the devil in that humid room.

We couldn't keep the window open because the bug screen was long gone. The room was dark and damp and Kee looked like he was already asleep but it would be hours before either of us could sleep in the suffocating warmth; his uneven breathing gave him away when I laid down next to him. "Kee?" I mumbled, and got no response. His back was turned to me and I was turned to the ceiling, but my head lolled sideways to see the back of his ruddy neck. "Kee."

"What?" he groaned, clearly exhausted but like I'd thought, not asleep.

"I'm going to the Salv tomorrow to pick up some clothes; do you wanna come?"

He tensed up but his old clothes were getting small on him. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

I was much less tired lying down in the dark, but not enough to go back out and wait longer with Bilbo: I'd go through the same cycle over again. Instead I just listened carefully through the thin walls for Uncle to arrive home. I checked the time every couple of minutes –the clock moving slower and slower every time I glanced at it— and it was almost midnight when the door opened and heavy dragging footsteps could be heard coming inside.

The next thing I heard was Bilbo's too cheerful voice. "Good evening!" (Uncle, on that note, never understood why it was always "good evening" and not "good night" when it was so dark and late; he still used the latter and often got odd looks for it.) "My name is Bilbo Baggins; I just moved in down the hall, in 4H." It was, honestly, a bad way to introduce himself. I had told Bilbo that Khazash might not take well to him living among them, didn't I?

There was an audible grunt in response and I tried to beg Uncle telepathically to just try to be nice, but my mind powers never seemed to work. Kee was asleep by this point and missed out on the exchange through the walls. "Why are you here?"

There was a pause and I could imagine Bilbo's flustered expression. Uncle was a very intimidating man, especially to strangers; I knew Bilbo wouldn't be able to handle him himself! Why had I left him? "I'm on leave from MEU for the semester. I'm working on a study and have relocated to be… closer to my work."

"No –why are you in my house?" (He'd also always call it a "house" even though it barely qualified as a "room.")

"I… My bedding arrangement fell through, and Fili told me his mother wasn't coming home tonight, so I could… sleep… here…"

My heart was up in my throat and I wanted to hurl. Nothing good could come from that, I was sure of it! Uncle would lash out, maybe even hurt poor little Bilbo, poor little means-no-harm Bilbo! My breath caught in my throat and I waited for a crash or a thud.

But none came. There was another grunt from Uncle Thorin but that was it, and then the airy compression of the sofa cushions when he collapsed to fall asleep. It was another long moment before I heard the squeaking cot as Bilbo laid down to do the same –and it was then that I could let out the air that had almost strangled me. Finally, I could sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

There were two questions I could always expect by the end of the first week of classes. This semester it had taken longer –probably because I was sitting in the back of every room— but even two weeks in I only found myself bored in waiting for the inevitable. This semester it was when I was approached by a girl about my age with sunburnt skin and dark blonde hair tied up in a messy bun. She was a little shorter than me (I was sitting still; she was standing stiffly next to my desk) and a bit stockier than a lot of the skinnier and leggier blondes to be found in the basic tuition classes, and probably looked better in those jean shorts but I wasn't awake enough to be interested. She tucked a strand behind her and got straight to the matter: "Do you dye your hair?"

I used to just say yes, because in high school it was by the greater population plagued with ignorance that I got this question with half of my first encounters –nobody could grasp that someone's natural hair color could be even a shade lighter than their skin. I stopped lying about it even though to lie and say yeah, I dyed my hair was so much easier than having to explain the basics of genetics. (I was, almost incredibly, the only yellow-haired head in the ECB; my father had been just as blond, according to Ma.)

The natural follow-up to an unwavering answer of "no" was always "Where are you from?" And with a roll of my eyes and a (superior, sorry) smirk, I'd say I'm from right here in the city, and move on to my next glass or to go home or wherever I was off to.

But the girl didn't ask. Instead she nodded and smiled and said "I like it. It suits you," and nothing else. Bag slung over her shoulder and heavy notebook tucked into her bent elbow, she climbed the stairs out of the lecture hall and disappeared behind the creaking door. I watched her go –I didn't know her name –not yet.

I got on the bus a block from the school with intentions to meet on the same route with Kee three blocks from his school. I dropped my exact change into the round slot and smoothed the twenty-dollar bill back into place. It was just enough to get some clothes from the Salv and maybe a bite to eat on the way home, and I just hoped it wouldn't slip through the hole in the one good pocket. I didn't own a wallet; I thought maybe I could skip the value meal dinner to get a cheap wallet instead –but I was really hungry.

I sat up front behind the surly driver, and when he pulled back into the busy street, I decided to make a pest of myself and strike up some conversation. "My cousin drives a city bus like this." I picked absently at the seat. (Everyone in the complex was either a concrete American relation –Ma, Uncle, Little Brother— or a cousin.) "His name's Bombur: big guy, red hair –you know him?" I got a sort of snarl in response and laughed to myself, sitting back against the sticky cushioned bench, digging deeper into the holes and scraping out bits of foam.

I saw Kee from a quarter mile from the bus stop. He had to cross the street still, and a taxi honked at him as he scurried across before the bus pulled away. He was sporting a yellow bruise on the side of his neck that I would drill him about later (if I said anything in public like I burned to Kee would have my ass on a platter for making a scene.) But I was watching him as he hopped up the bus steps; he didn't have enough change on him but pretended it was more than he really gave, and plopped down next to me. I kept my eyes on his neck and he covered it almost shyly with his hand, glaring daggers at me until I finally looked back ahead. We said nothing.

I told Kee he didn't have to come inside with me. I stood halfway in the door to the thrift store and he was a few feet back, arms crossed against his chest, as if he could take another step forward and find an electrified force field to shock him back to the proper distance. There was a Burger King down the street: "Wanna go get some food and I'll be quick in here?"

But he shook his head. "I need some new shirts." All his t-shirts were black and full of holes, comfortable but not presentable outside the apartment. I nodded slowly and opened the glass door wider, gesturing him inside and patting his shoulder as he slid past me.

The Salv was not much cooler than our stuffy home but it was more brightly lit. Racks of clothes stretched across one side with vague qualifying placards taped to the rail. On the other side was outerwear and books and hand-me-down accessories, and in the basement they had the furniture that would probably fill my first apartment –all secondhand and well-worn but enough for what you paid.

Kee had a crooked basket hanging from his arm, large enough to hold what little we could afford. His ten dollars and change was maybe enough for two or three shirts and no food, but he'd be going to work soon, anyway. A middle-aged woman who smelled like cats approached us, and Kee tensed at the sight of her bright red apron and too-wide smile. She examined the both of us and her smile brightened in that self-righteous charitable way we learned to tolerate in time.

She actually grabbed Kee's arm in her need to assist us and tried to steer him in the direction of shapeless dresses; he flinched and told her to fuck off. The smile was gone. We were asked to hurry and pay and leave the store before other customers were deterred by _our_ poor behavior.

Kee had gotten his shirts and another wound to his usual (cautiously) chipper mood. He had no money left for food after the cashier at the Salv had hassled him into donating the remaining two dollars left after purchasing the three plain black tees. At Burger King I spent all but three pennies on a ten-piece nuggets and two value fries, and water that we could drink for free. We sat at a rickety table and ate a while in silence.

"You know we'll be going back there, right?" He was watching his reflection ripple in the water cup. I nodded and popped another salty fry into my mouth.


	6. Chapter 6

Satisfied that he wouldn't go to work hungry again, I was able to let Kee get on the bus headed uptown. I hugged him quick before he got on; my face pressed against his shoulder, I got an eyeful of the bruise, worse than I remembered. I made a mental note to bring it up tonight, or in the morning if he was too tired to be cooperative. I patted his back once, twice, and he was off to work at the Woods's. I got on the next bus going in the opposite direction. It was a twenty-seven minute ride on a good day –few riders, light traffic— to get to the ECB.

I ran into Bilbo on one of the three steep flights up the stairs. His pink mouth pulled into a wide dimpled grin when he saw me. "Fili, my boy! So good to see a familiar face! Wonderful news, too –my brother-in-law brought in my mattress today. I won't have to sleep at your place again." He laughed and I rewarded his broad smile with a broader and brighter one, so big that it hurt my cheeks.

I noticed the antsy child at his side, hidden in a mop of dark curls. "Who's this?" I asked innocently, getting down a little more to the boy's level.

"This is my nephew, Frodo –say hi, Frodo— I'm watching him for the day. Why don't you come upstairs and join us for tea?"

I didn't much like tea. I was more of a coffee drinker, if I could get a hold of it. But I did like Bilbo, so I was easily led into his airy apartment. (His windows still had bug screens and could be left open without fear of infestation.)

"I wanted to speak with you this morning," Bilbo apologized, pouring two cups, "but I had to go early to my sister's house to help move the mattress with her husband. I came by afterward with this little one to see if you were around, but it seemed everyone had already gone for the day –and then I took Frodo to the park. We just came back."

"We played catch," Frodo quipped quietly. He couldn't have been more than four or five years old and was a precious little boy. I asked if I could ruffle his soft hair, and he smiled and allowed it.

"We did indeed," Bilbo grinned, sitting across from me. "Frodo, why don't you go play with your Lego blocks? I need to have a little chat with Mr.—"

It felt almost like the awkward first-day introductions all over again, and I stiffened. "Just Fili," I pressed, wanting to stay on a first name basis and feeling too young to be a "Mister" anything, even if surnames were of more importance to us.

Frodo nodded and ran off to the kitchen to play on the floor, which Bilbo must've mopped; the whole place looked much cleaner, if no more extravagant, than when I was there the day before.

Bilbo looked uncomfortable where he sat beside me, staring straight ahead for quite a bit and clearing his throat more than once. I almost got a chance to ask what was bothering him when he started abruptly: "I ought to get right down to it; come clean while I can." He kept his voice low enough to stay between us, the child at play undisturbed. I was confused and waited for Bilbo to clarify. "I— I of course meant no harm, but my original design was to be very secretive about the whole business. But if I'm going to get the information I seek, I need to be more straightforward in pursuing the information."

"Bilbo..?" His odd tone was starting to scare me a little. I backed into the arm of the dingy sofa but he was quick to reassure me.

"Fili, no, don't worry! I only want to tell you what I'm after in the course of my study –and possibly ask some help of you."

I was a little more at ease but no less confused. "What— What about?"

"My study is on your people, your group that came here to this country en masse twenty years ago. A small group but the entirety of it relocated to this small section of city. I want to know why, and what life here anew has given or denied these people from Erebor." He was slipping into academia but I refused to let it wedge between us. I listened on carefully. "I want to get to know you all; I want to know your culture and how it interacts with the surrounding culture of the city and the nation as a whole. I'm monstrously curious about it all. I plan to write a book on the subject, because there is not one adequately detailed account of it all to be found! Can you believe it?"

I'd grown up the product of a displaced people in a country very knew and conflicting with our ways. Yes, I could believe that the educational system would bury us. I knew that in elementary school. But Bilbo's question was probably rhetorical, so I just nodded and let him go on again. He seemed very passionate about the issue and it would be a shame to cut him off.

"That is why I am here. I'm a sociology scholar dipping my toe in the deep end of cultural and urban anthropology. I want to understand and to educate –I want to help both sides of this wall—" (he patted the plaster behind him) "— each understand the other." He took a deep breath to calm himself. His face had gone red and his voice was becoming hoarse, and it made something swell in my chest to see him so riled up over something that had so very little to do with him. "Will you help me?"

I couldn't turn it down. "Yes. Yes, Bilbo, I'll help you." I tried not to sound too eager.

* * *

The first thing I asked was why he'd "come clean," as he'd called it, so suddenly. He chuckled and replied, "I realized last night with your uncle that I wasn't going to make much headway if I didn't have a mediator for the project: someone compassionate to both the residents of the building and my research. You told me that the people here, the…"

'Khazash' came quickly to my throat but stopped there. I was worried Bilbo might not be welcomed to use the word, so I made one up for him to use for now, until a better phrase was worked out: "Ereborians?" The word sounded and tasted awful on my tongue but he quickly took it up, and it was good enough for now.

"Yes, there we go," he grinned. "You told me they might not be welcoming to my intrusion. Honestly, I probably should've thought that through before I moved here." The landlord was not Khazash himself, a constant dilemma; but still, he owned the building and rented out filthy broken apartments for cheaper than other filthy broken apartments in the city. Bilbo pulled a small notepad and pencil from his pocket and flipped to a blank page. "Can I ask who in the building speaks English, and who I would need a translator for? I would like to speak to as many people as will permit me."

I thought it over for a long moment, and tried to make a list of all the Khazash that, even if they wouldn't been keen on it, I might at all be able to convince to talk with Bilbo –there were many I knew better than others, and Uncle and Ma's high regard among them gave me some standing of my own (plus I was pretty well-liked on my own merit.) Once I'd compiled a list of fourteen and subtracted myself (of course I'd talk to him!) I divided it up by who spoke English how well.

I told him that it was me, Kee, and Ori (a timid teen living in the basement) who were fluent in English, brought up through the language-exclusive school system where we'd been forced to learn it abruptly after speaking Khuzdul all our young lives. I said that I was the oldest of the children born here, then Kee and Ori two and three years later –all the other children were probably too young to get any other noteworthy information from.

Two of the remaining eleven I'd singled out, Bofur and Nori, were highly proficient in English and could easily get through an interview –"but Nori's currently serving two months." Bilbo nodded and said he might be able to speak with him when he got out; I winced and told him quietly not to count on it. Nori would probably be back in as soon as he got out.

Nine left –Uncle Thorin and Bombur both could hold conversation but might need some translating in between, which I would be happy to sit for. Bilbo smiled and made note; he was writing names and levels at which they could speak the language, and for a moment, I didn't like that. I thought to take the notepad from him and ask why he wrote it like we were being graded, but I held my tongue and tucked my twitching fingers under my thighs.

There wouldn't be much hope to speak to the remaining seven without my help. Dwalin, if he even agreed to participate, had limited speaking proficiency in English. He could understand it much better on sight or sound than he could produce from his own head. Gloin and Dori spoke some English, enough to get their work done (Gloin was a mail carrier and Dori lived upstate serving some wealthy family like Kee did, only legally and making better money for it. I had no idea how to get a hold of the latter but trusted Ori could get him on the phone long enough to translate himself.) Ma had come to the country in early adulthood with a child (me) on the way and had had no time from the very beginning to learn more than bits and pieces of English in conversation. She spoke a broken language, and not at all if it wasn't absolutely necessary (I was tentative even including her on the list, but convinced myself she'd do it for me.) Oin was much the same in his understanding of the language, too old and deaf to have learned much but he could theoretically survive probably. Balin and Bifur spoke no English at all.

Bilbo was ecstatic about the detail I apparently gave him, even when I left a lot of it still concealed. When he put the note paper away I felt ready to pull my hands from under my ass. At length I asked, "So where do we go from here?"

He looked to me in a way that seemed to expect I would provide my own answer, and after a moment he said as much: "It's up to you, Fili –I know so little about how these people might take to my questions. (You're really going to prove an invaluable asset to my study, I can tell!)"

I smiled a little at the praise and rubbed the back of my sweaty dirty neck. I really did need a shower, but that was pushed out of mind when I started to mull over how to approach everyone about the research Bilbo was doing. I could tell them he was genuinely looking to learn about our culture, rather than impose his own –but they might not believe me. I almost didn't expect them to. I would need something more concrete when I approached them (without Bilbo: he might put them on edge despite his sweet manner and very real interest in getting to know them.) I clucked my tongue against the sore inside of my cheek. "Do you have the questions ready that I could maybe show them in advance, before they agree?"

Bilbo stiffened and shook his head, running a hand over his slim thigh. I fought against my jaw with the will of its own, trying to take my bottom lip between my teeth. I was trying not to stare but he kept on rubbing until "I don't, I'm afraid. I'll tell you what: I'll make up a list of basic questions to ask and I'll show you tomorrow. Why don't we meet for lunch?"

I nodded a little too eagerly; my urge to spend time with Bilbo outside the building overrode the back-of-my-head knowledge that I was flat broke.


End file.
